


Pretend I'm Yours

by skai6 (Biosahar)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Acting as a couple, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Intense, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22637200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biosahar/pseuds/skai6
Summary: "Mother, father. Meet my lover, Geralt."In order to slither out of an awkward marriage arranged by his parents, Jaskier begs Geralt to pretend to be his lover. Little did they know that in all their acting, feelings deem to eventually ensue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 76
Kudos: 470





	1. Chapter 1

“Geralt.”

“No."

Geralt was riding in the front when the bard had first called after him. They have been on the road for seven days and six nights, until their back bones started aching for the comfort of a real bed and their bellies for the warmth of a hearty meal.

There was humidity in the air, the first glimpses of a pale sun shifting behind the dense clouds above. Winter was bidding the land farewell leaving but the promise of spring drifting into the pleasant wind. Geralt's swords clicked in his scabbard, matching in their rhythmicity Roach’s clopping across the snow-melted path that stretched beyond the horizon.

Behind Geralt was Jaskier, shuffling and stumbling on his footing in an attempt to catch up. His brand new leather shoes and the fine linen of the brim of his pants were tediously dragged into the mud, failing to survive the harsh reality of travelling on foot.

"You didn’t yet hear what I have to say," protested he, frowning. 

"Don't plan to,” came Geralt's stale response.

Clutching a safe grip around the neck of his lute and resolute to draw his companion's attention, the bard trotted ahead to barricade his path. Confused, Roach drew to a halt.

"Jaskier," sighed Geralt. "Get out of the way."

  
  
"I'm afraid I can't," stubbornly reciprocated the bard, arms crossed over his chest. "Not until you agree to listen to my sorrowful, heart-wrenching tale and decide to take pity on my person!"

  
"As if,” he scoffed.

  
  
"Oh, come on! I promise you this isn't another one of my overstated dramatizations, although I admit I tend to have quite a few of those – artistic inspirations I call them," hummed Jaskier half-distracted, then his mouth pursed and his arms came dropping to his sides in defeat. "This is a serious matter, Geralt. It concerns my upbringing.”

Geralt had hardly forwarded him a glance. Jaskier took it as a sign and made his statement.

“A week ago, as we first arrived into town for the Warg hunt, I have received an unexpected word from my parents.”

  
  
There was a pause, to which Geralt responded with the quirk of a brow.

“Am I supposed to gasp for effect?” 

Jaskier's eyes widened in disbelief.

“You don’t understand!" moaned he in a high-pitched tone, "My parents sending word is the equivalent of the most terrible of omens!”

  
  
Jaskier's lips parted to drag in a swift breath, his hands resting on his hips, beaten.

"You see, my parents are – Well, how do I delicately put this into words – quite, no, _awfully_ old fashioned. They care for nothing but beauty and appearances."

  
  
"That explains a lot."

  
  
Jaskier squinted his eyes, and choosing to ignore his companion's scornful comment, carried on telling his tale.

  
  
"They have certain expectations. Expectations they demand be met,” he explained. “For instance, and this is a sample handpicked from the splendid history of yours truly, when I was but a child of ten, my father had me chugging a filled-to-the-brim tankard of ale just to prove I had his _potent g_ _enes_. I know, I know. Terrible! Disastrous! Truly tragic!”

"Get to the point. I don't have all day."

  
  
"Gods, patience, my dear friend, I’m getting there!" fussed Jaskier. "So where was I again? Right. The morning of our departure from town, a courier entered the inn and entrusted a sealed envelope into the hands of the barmaid Anna. Now Anna, which I have bewitched the night before with my angelic singing, dashed up to my room to hand the envelope in. I was taken aback, breath hitched, eyes wide, seeing her beautiful self standing at my door that very next morning. It was meant to be, I thought. Yet as she handed me the envelope and I peered upon the shape of its seal, all hope shattered from my eyes. I thanked her warmly, nonetheless, and with great remorse, refused her advances. Nevertheless, nothing could have possibly taken place with a certain _someone_ sharing that box of a room with me -"

"This is my last warning," interrupted Geralt, teeth gritting in impatience.

"Yes, yes, fine, I'll cut to the chase and scamper to the dry and dull," He sighed dramatically, "So I open the cursed envelope and face the disappointment that is my parents' invitation. They have apparently made arrangements with a certain noble family, an arrangement which affects me personally, mind you. Now, as marvelous as it might sound, to be taken into consideration by one of the wealthiest people of the continent entire, and I admit quite proudly to my feeling honored– ”

“Roach," dryly cut Geralt.

Tapping lightly at the side of his horse with the back of his heel, Geralt had Roach push forward up the path with a loud neigh. Alarmed, Jaskier slipped aside in time to make way through.

“It’s an arranged marriage!” he cried after his departed companion. “I, poet of poets, composer of the finest ballads of the continent, am to be married off to some common noble daughter for the sake of all that glitters! Can you imagine?!”

With a tug, Roach came to a quick halt. Geralt peered over his shoulder. Amber eyes that reflected gold under the peering sun, and white hair turned grey with mud and dirt. He was granting him his full attention, at last.

"Why are you telling me this?" 

"Because you're my friend," huffed Jaskier proudly, quite content with how far he had come. "And I'm also desperate for help."

" _What_ kind of help?"

"Well, 'tis wonderful that you ask," mused the bard, his head tilting to the side, displaying a witty smile. "You, Geralt of Rivia, will do me the honor of travelling back home to my parents as my --" 

“I know where this is going,” cut Geralt shortly. “The answer is _definitely_ no.”

“I beg of you, Geralt!” cried Jaskier. “It's just for a day or two. You’ll just have to pretend!”

“To be a bard’s mistress?” scoffed he from afar. “I would rather _die_.”

Jaskier was at his wit’s end. Desperation taking a toll on him, he stopped amidst the path of mud and dirt and with crossed arms, watched Geralt’s figure venture ahead in the distance without him.

“What are you doing?” Geralt barked back from afar, noticing his extensive delay.

“Not moving!” yelled he. “I’m staying here until _you_ decide to act like a _friend_ for once and help me!”

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

“Fine. You stay there, then. See if I care.”

“Fine!" he echoed, "You go ahead and abandon me _again,_ then. Isn't that what you do best?”

He had gone too far, Jaskier admitted shortly after. Their latest fight was a fresh wound to their mended friendship. It has been but a couple months since they had crossed each others' path again and decided on turning a page anew. Jaskier wondered if he had pulled the wrong thread right then and there when to his greatest surprise, Geralt turned around and headed back towards him.

“What’s in it for me?” 

Jaskier’s lips stretched into a victorious grin.

“Coin,” he said, catching a glimmer of interest in his companion's eyes. “Plenty of it.”

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

“When I was six-years-old I stumbled over my own foot and fell into the village’s well,” narrated Jaskier. He was fiddling through the diverse collection of outfits he had laid out on top of the bed to observe. “As feeble as little me was, I got out of it with nothing but a scar on the upper thigh. Quite remarkable, don't you think?”

In the far end of the room, a section concealed by a standing wood-framed divider, Geralt let out an excessive sigh. It was one of comfort, as he was amidst enjoying his first bath in what felt like an eternity.

After he had (unwillingly) struck a deal with the bard – which he still gravely regrets – the two have changed the course of their journey to start heading north. In the meantime, Jaskier had sent a letter to his parents announcing his accompanied arrival back home, which the very next day was met with a rich response.

_The lovely couple_ , as Jaskier’s parents insisted on calling them – and Geralt could read right through the thickness of their literary sarcasm – was to be picked up by a carriage from the village in which they currently sojourn to travel comfortably for the remainder of the road. They insisted, also, on inviting the noble house into which Jaskier was (formerly) to be married for a large feast to welcome their son's return after years of travel.

The bard rejoiced at the idea, swooning over the softness of his parents’ hearts – and perhaps they _have_ softened over the years – but Geralt was no fool. He needed no graduating Oxenfurt to read through _bullshit_ when he sees it. However much they gave their _feast_ a thousand synonyms in the letter, Geralt saw it as nothing but a lurking ambush of the noble kind.

Now, not only his stricken deal intertwined all the more into complexity but Jaskier has been talking his ears off since dawn’s sun shined, going back and forth about the demanded preparations prior to their departure. His family was that of appearances, he said. _“If we wish the plan to work, we have to look the part”_. To Geralt, this translated into a nightmare. Wining and dining and dressing and dancing. He would rather drag Jaskier back to his parents’ arranged marriage himself rather than go through all the trouble.

And yet, Geralt knew better than to let himself contort and twist in irritation when amidst a most-welcomed bath. The oil-graced water that embraced his skin worked as a powerful cure, unknotting into ease the pent-up tension he had dragged along for days. A blessing of the higher kind.

“When I was thirteen, I rode my first horse,” continued the voice of the bard, his spirits high. “The first gallop and I was sent flying face-first onto the ground, hence my unwillingness to fetch a mount although quite honestly that would cut our travel time by half. Nevertheless, I still refuse – Are you listening, Geralt?”

A groan was heard. He was – against himself. 

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because by pretending to be my partner, _you_ are supposed to know me best!" he reciprocated. "What would my parents say if they figure out you don’t even know my first name?”

“Trust me. That would be the least of their concerns.”

“Oh –” Jaskier broke into a light laugh. “Is it the whole _Witcher_ matter? If so, then rest assured. My parents are well aware of my, well, _peculiar_ tastes.”

Geralt grunted loudly.

“Don’t ever call me that.”

“What should I call you, then?” hummed Jaskier. “Darling? Dear? My beloved? Oh! And what would we have _you_ call me? Let us see –“

“Jaskier,” he interrupted. “Don’t push it. I can still change my mind anytime.”

“You, dear friend, lack greatly in humour,” he moaned, his soft tone subduing in the water-tinkling quiet of the bedroom. “Fine, then, you might as well call me by my first name. That wouldn’t be so terrific, would it?”

A low hum was all Jaskier received.

“Geralt,” he suddenly called, the excitement dying out of his voice. “Do you even _remember_ my first name?”

If there was one thing Geralt was thankful for at that very moment, it was the divider that blocked his view to the bedroom. It spared him the look of pure judgement tainting the bard’s otherwise gentle features. And yet, Jaskier, being his persistent self, abandoned whatever it was he was preoccupied with to stomp angrily into the washing room.

He stood before Geralt in nothing but his blue chemise and underpants, his chest hair sticking out from under the loose laces of his collar. His eyebrows fell deep in his forehead and the corner of his eyes wrinkled in what Geralt read as frustration.

“Julian,” he answered himself in defeat. “It’s Julian.”

Under his scolding demeanour, Geralt noticed a subtle hint of hurt. He convinced himself he must have read too much into it since it dissipated as fast as it appeared and soon Jaskier was coming at him with all smiles and overflowing determination.

“Now, now! Quit flopping around in that disgusting mud-tainted water of yours and join me in the bedroom,” he demanded. “It’s time to get you finely dressed for the occasion.”

A nightmare, Geralt insisted.

He wasn’t given a chance to linger further in the cocooning comfort of his bath, for Jaskier was bringing over a towel and dismissing him out of it. He stood up and the water in the tub sank drastically behind him. Looking back, Jaskier was not exaggerating its filthiness. A week’s worth of sweating, lying on sodden grounds and hunting wild beasts did that to a man.

Expecting the towel to wrap around him with delay – an act Jaskier often took the liberty of doing – Geralt’s attention drew back to its holder. The bard, with lingering blue orbs and faintly parted lips, was half-distractedly, if not boldly, _staring_.

“Come on,” He cut short, raising shameless eyes back towards Geralt. “We don’t have all day. The carriage will be here by early afternoon. Move, move, move!”

Geralt, still dripping from head to toe onto the flooring, was directed into the bedroom against his will. It was larger than what they could usually afford – the bard’s attempt in _putting up with appearances_ already at work. A tall wardrobe stood nearby the fireplace, open and devoid of its content, and a sheepskin carpet laid on the floor, separating the two beds the comfort of which was still fresh in Geralt’s memory. 

He was put in front of a mirror and for the next hour or two submitted to the torture of dressing up into linen so soft and snug it had his skin hair tickle in discomfort. Jaskier insisted on handling his hair next, _“A braid would look mesmerizing on you!”_ was the last thing he managed to utter before Geralt was forwarding him a death glare.

“All right, all right,” he renounced at once, “A great shame, but we’ll make do with the usual.”

How Geralt surrendered, stood still and allowed the bard to fiddle with his hair was beyond his comprehension. It wasn’t that he had anything against it, but having his hair touched was considered a rather intimate act, one which Geralt only allowed a few.

Jaskier began by drying his hair with a towel, and as he did, broke out in song. It wasn’t a tune Geralt had heard before, and neither was it a catchy one he sang to the masses. It was a solitary tune, one which caressed one’s ear and faded tenderly in the air after. It was the kind that one sang to themselves when nobody around was listening. It was, as Jaskier’s touch of Geralt’s hair, _intimate_.

Time passed by unnoticed, and Jaskier’s artistic fingers eventually left his proximity. With an air of pride and joy, he patted his companion’s shoulders and peered over them at his reflection in the mirror.

“All done,” He announced, “Look at you, Geralt. All elegant and suave! One step into my parents’ feast and all women would scatter at your feet!”

“And what would that bring me?” he sneered, peeling himself off the bard’s grip. “The second they hear I’m your concubine they’ll scamper off elsewhere. You’re bad business, Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughed heartily. “You’ll live through that!”

Geralt was impressed, nonetheless, by the effort put into his overall appearance. He wore a grey chemise over a leather-strapped doublet and long breeches that ended in a thick pair of leather boots. All black, to Geralt’s sweet comfort. Since the _sad silk trader_ incident, which ended up with Geralt scorning Jaskier’s fashion sense, the bard had promised to improve and the promise had greatly paid off.

What truly captivated Geralt’s attention, however, was the scent his hair was oozing with post-care. It was a soft aromatic mixture of honey and roses, pleasant to the nose. Under the effect of the oil Geralt's white strands glowed brighter than ever before. Whatever it was the bard used, it worked miracles.

“Now, dear friend, if you don’t mind,” started he as he spun over to search through the outfits displayed on the bed. “I must get myself ready before my parents’ carriage catches me in my underpants. Ah, the mere thought of it sends a shudder of disgrace down my spine!”

Geralt was happy to oblige. If he was about to spend the next couple of days in the constant company of Jaskier and alike, then he might as well enjoy the blessing of solitude while it offered itself to him in the form of a quiet surrounding and a jug-full of ale.

With Jaskier’s warning against tainting the fabric of his outfit fading in the background, Geralt left the room of the inn and with eager feet, tramped downstairs to the bar.

Later that evening, and as the sun’s lingering glimmer faded slowly in the mountainous horizon, the carriage arrived at its destination.

The estate in which Jaskier’s parents resided was located in the outskirts of the city. They had to drive through a fair distance of greenery, of thick oak trees and wild horses, rabbits and deer, to catch a glimpse of the manor stretching massively in the distance.

Beside him, Jaskier had grown quiet. He was clothed in an ink blue outfit that enhanced the colour of his worried eyes and was tensely clutching the lute resting on his lap.

“Is it _that_ terrible?” wondered Geralt in an attempt to break the silence. “Meeting your parents.”

“You have no clue,” whispered Jaskier without meeting his stare, his vocal cords hoarse with anxiety. “I can hardly remember _what_ drove me away from home, but it was terrible enough it had me not think of it in decades.”

Geralt chose not to push the topic any further. The horses came to a halt with a neigh and the driver – a scrunchy-nosed youth with a deep frown that wouldn’t quit staring at Geralt since he first mounted– came holding the door open.

“We’re here,” he said with a thick accent. “His Lord and ‘er Ladyship are waiting at the door.”

Geralt turned to Jaskier. The man had grown a shade paler.

“Are you sure you're ready to go through with this?”

The lump in his throat bobbed. He took a deep breath, licked his dry lips, then flickered a quick eye towards Geralt, an unexpected smirk beginning to trace his mouth.

“I've never been more ready, _darling._ ”

Geralt sighed a desperate sigh.

_A nightmare._

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

“Mother, father. Meet my lover, Geralt.”

It started with a silence so still, it deafened Jaskier’s ears and sent droplets of sweat sticking to the back of his neck. He and Geralt had made it this far, standing at the entrance of the monumental manor worthy of a Lord and Lady– his own father and mother. 

He hasn’t seen them in roughly two decades. His father had grown old and wrinkled, his belly double its former size - to blame on his overindulgence in drinking. His mother, on the other hand, had retained most of her youthful fairness -the play of whatever sorcery she was mastering to the present-day. The one element that, after all these years, knew no alteration whatsoever, was the look of judgment his parents bore, razor-sharp and penetrating. It weighted with degradation and mercilessness Jaskier so distinctly remembers from childhood. 

Then it started coming back to him, the reason _why_ he left.

"A Witcher?" came his mother's outcry. A thin, sharp-eyed, long-haired brunette that many mistook for an elf. She scrutinized Geralt up and down, searching for flaws in every thread of fabric and every strand of hair, before settling on the figure of her own son. “Are you out of your mind, Julian?!”

“Too much for _well-aware_ ,” whispered Geralt under his breath behind him.

“But mother!” came Jaskier’s protesting moan.

“I want this brute out of my land, _immediately_ ,” insisted she, bitterness in her tongue, then turned to her husband with a swift huff. “Say something, dear!”

“What?” blurted out the Lord, taken aback.

Jaskier’s father stood still with half-lid eyes and an absent mind, seemingly quite focused – if not _too_ focused – on Geralt. The stench of alcohol about him was so strong it had reached Jaskier all the way to the door of the carriage he climbed out of not so long ago.

“Oh yes, uh, the Witcher,” he reciprocated, dull eyes sparkling with interest. “I’ve heard quite the tales about you, dramatic and heroic alike. Who would’ve thought _my_ half-wit of a son would wind up charming a monstrous legend such as yourself.”

To everyone’s surprise, the Lord advanced towards Geralt with a stretched-out hand, his untrimmed beard-hidden mouth expressing what looked like a smile of admiration. Hesitant, Geralt received the hand in his for a handshake.

“What are you saying, dear?!” gasped the Lady in alarm, angered by the situation unfolding before her eyes. “This man is a killer! A butcher! Have you not heard of what his kind are capable of?”

“Oh, I have heard quite enough, darling,” came her husband’s confident statement. “This man came here today not as a butcher but as a lover to our son. I say so long he keeps the peace and abides by the land’s rules, he’s as welcome as any other.”

Then the Lord’s attention drew back to the white-haired man in question.

“Not to mention that a Witcher's help is always welcome in times of dire need. I heard your people would rid of anything for a good sum of coin."

“Why, thank you, father,” said Jaskier with a cleared throat, raising his hands in protest. “Quite wonderful of you to welcome Geralt with open arms, but let us remind you that our presence here is solely for the purpose of a visit. Therefore it is wise to stay at arm’s length from any sort of deals of any–“

“I’m in,” came Geralt's approval.

Jaskier turned to him with a sight of pure bewilderment. If Geralt hadn’t shown any sign of joy since Jaskier had put him inside his fancy too-silky-for-touch outfit, he _had_ now.

“Wonderful, wonderful!” cried his father with gleaming eyes. “Come now, Witcher. Do me the honour of sharing your first drink within this household with its humble owner. I surely hope you are a man who enjoys strong liquor!”

“You have no idea,” agreed Geralt on a heartbeat, and he and the Lord began distancing themselves into the heart of the manor.

“Geralt!” called Jaskier after him, his voice’s echo fading in the vastness of the entrance hall.

He had hardly the chance to follow before his mother came grasping at his elbow and hissing into his ear.

“A word, _now_.”

.

.

.

Jaskier was dragged to the upper floors of the manor where the bedroom quarter was located. Strongly nostalgic for his surroundings, he was given a brief time to stop and ponder upon the painting he knocked over as a toddler or the carpet he set on fire as a child. He was wild and also a dreamer. His excitement for life’s numerous gifts translated into an appetite for discovering and creating, destroying and mending. It only came upon him later in early adulthood that he wasn’t one for indoor keeping and noble feasting. He was an adventurer, a hopeless romantic whose love for life was to be grasped in the wilderness and its danger. 

And that was _part_ of why he left, but not all of it.

“What are you _doing_?” came his mother’s high-pitched, scolding tone, who, the second the door to her own chamber shut close and she and Jaskier were alone in the confines of the walls, unleashed her demonic side.

“Of all the gracious lords and dazzling ladies of impeccable upbringing, you choose to disgrace our family by bringing in a _mutant_? Why, Julian, _why_?! Have I not raised you better? Have I not made of you the man you have become, the romantic, the singer, the lover? Have I not reared you into becoming a charmer who would, with the snap of his fingers, have the finest of the lords and ladies of the continent fall to his feet?”

She had approached him swiftly, her hands gently cupping his face, her blue hues matching his own, soft and loving one second, then hateful and vicious the next.

“So tell me, my dear son. Tell me why would you bring a brute into the hold of your own beloved home when I have chosen for you a most delicate, most dazzling of flowers, a young rose with the beauty of a thousand angels, to be wedded to?”

He was stunned at first, shocked and baffled by his mother’s ambush, but as he regained his senses, Jaskier managed to read through her like anopen book. It was all too familiar. The shaming, the belittling, the condescending. His mother’s finest art of manipulation. And he, as he was before and is now again, her hopeless victim.

He could take it all, the humiliation and the guilt, the shame and the culpability, he could take it as he had taken it before as a child - a complex bundle of emotions he had grown used to repressing over the years. But that was about it. When the scorning and belittling began gnawing at Geralt's name, Jaskier knew about where to draw the line.

"You're wrong, mother," reciprocated he right after, his misty eyes darkening with antagonism.

A simple utterance that had his mother's face twist into a horrid expression of mixed rage and confusion. She released her hands from around his face and took a step back to face her demise.

“Geralt might be a Witcher. He might be a killer, a butcher, a monster. He has known many a name but the sole one I care to remember is that of _honourable_. And why you may ask? I shall tell you, mother. I shall tell you of the tale of Geralt of Rivia, the man who made it his life’s quest to rid the world of its cruelest monsters, a job which no other could stand to consider. Yes, he might have had his fair share of wrong turns, killed to survive and kept a distance to avoid being feared. And yet who speaks of the long-forgotten peace he had brought back to the villages of the land? The peace they have starved after for years! _None_ , mother. None speaks of it but I. For you have raised me with an eye for what’s right and wrong and with a soft heart to do what must be done, and with both, I have found in Geralt what I have found in no other alive. I have found in him the heart of a hero, and a humanity in its purest form. In him, mother, I have found company, sympathy, and care of which my own flesh and blood, of which _you_ , have deprived the child in me.”

With the outburst coming to its imminent end, Jaskier was left short of air, his lungs expanding and his heart palpitating with restlessness. There was a heavy stillness to the confines of the room, a stillness that had him recognize the passionate fondness he held for Geralt.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” came his mother's disdained sigh.

To which Jaskier’s eyes fluttered wide open.

“Fool,” she uttered in surrender, then left her son's side to peer across the large windows giving onto the manor’s yard. “We will discuss this matter further after the feast. For now, do me a favor and go fetch your _Witcher_ before he goes putting some _ideas_ inside your father’s head.”

He needn’t be told twice for Jaskier was relieved he was dismissed in the first place. While trotting back downstairs in hope to convince Geralt not to strike any unnecessary deals with his father – knowing very well how that would not play in favor to his own part of the deal – Jaskier could not calm the resounding echo of his own heart fluttering under his chest.

It was no secret that Jaskier held hopeless, unrequited feelings for Geralt. From day one of coming across said realization, he had done what he did best and repressed his emotions. To diminish one's passion and conceal it under the bound of friendship was no simple task for a romantic, but he was greatly aware that it was his only chance lest he chose the path of self-damnation. After all, Geralt would never look at him the same.

And yet - and yet. 

Venturing down the hall that led to the lounging chambers into which Geralt and his father disappeared earlier, the figure of Geralt rose to sight, so imminent, so absolute, with the blinding brightness of his hair and the shining glimmer of his orbs. He caught sight of the bard in the flicker of a moment. As if he was expected. As if Geralt was waiting for him to appear, and it all washed over Jaskier with mended, absurd hope that perhaps – perhaps he stood a chance. Perhaps Geralt _did_ look at him the same.

“Ah, Julian, my son! You’re right on time!” announced his father with a hearty laugh. “Geralt here had just finished telling me the story of how the two of you came together. Why, you sneaky rascal. Who would’ve thought you had it in you?”

Jaskier searched for an answer in Geralt’s eyes, yet all he was given were lips stretched into a smile so smug it had the bard’s throat thirst for something other than water. 

“You should teach me a thing or two about _charming_ ,” his father continued. “You’ll do this manor a great favour.”

“Why yes, father. I’d be much happy to aid you in carrying on your side-affairs with Mother at my throat,” Jaskier scoffed half-earnestly, moving into the room with a steady step. “Moreover, I’m quite certain Geralt here has not yet told you of the whole story. It wasn't I who charmed him. It was _he_ who charmed me."

A truth Jaskier thought was innocently masked under the circumstances at hand. He circled the cushioned couch upon which Geralt was seated and rested careful palms upon his broad shoulders, unshaken by the sudden stiffness he was met with. And as if his action was not bold enough, he had the ridiculous idea to lean over, and, taking in the rosy scent of Geralt’s hair anoited by none other than himself, whispered right into his ear.

“Why don’t _you_ share the story, love?”

And he had gone and done it. He had made Geralt of Rivia groan in discomfort and rise up to his feet.

“Perhaps another time,” he announced with concealed frustration. “Where's my room?”

“Right, right, the two of you must be drained," noted the Lord, then, with the snap of his fingers one of his servants came rushing from the door, nearly stumbling on her feet.

“Yes, my Lord?” she spoke in a sweet tone. 

“Show my lovely guests to their respective chambers,” ordered he. “Tend to whatever needs they have."

"With honour, my Lord."

And as she came at them with her voluptuous _frog-like_ figure and _inane_ beauty, and Geralt's _stupid_ eyes welcomed her with _pitiful_ hunger, Jaskier felt a burning sting unleash within him at once.

Jealousy was a beast he had not yet learned to conquer.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments. They really keep me going!

“You must remain by my side.”

“Hm.”

“You can't leave me. Not even for a brief moment.”

“Hm.”

“Make sure you occasionally brush your shoulder against mine. Whisper into my ear. Lean onto me. Anything to get Mother out of my hair!”

Jaskier was trudging back and forth in front of the hearth as he spoke, feet stepping heavily over the red expensive-looking carpet covering the floor. The crackling of firewood filled the silence between his words and the light emanating from the fireplace added an air of melodrama to his already sour expression. 

“I can't believe her!” He snapped with a stomp on the floor, one hand extended in the air in protest. “She never changes, that woman! Always thinks herself almighty and predominant! Why can’t she fathom the fact that _she_ no longer has a say in _my_ life?”

The ranting has been going on for over an hour and any sane person was bound to grow bored listening. As Jaskier's tone carried on scolding his ancestors for bringing his mother to life, Geralt's head turned to inspect the room he would be sharing with the garrulous bard. Immense and extravagant, it consisted of a hearth, a lounging area, two large wardrobes and a separate balcony. The chamber was undeniably by far the largest of all the rooms Geralt had the luxury of inhabiting during his travels. The only downside was, it comprise one bed. Surely he and Jaskier had, on several occasions, been faced by the inadequacy of sharing a room with a sole bed - which often happened around the time the town or village they happened to visit was undergoing a period of festivities -, but this situation was not like any of the ones they were met with in the past. This called for the entirety of the inhabitants of the manor - with the knowledge of Geralt and Jaskier's involvement in a loving relationship - to venture down a line of thoughts that might or might not be of the sexual kind, and that, Geralt did not yet know _how_ to feel about. 

“Last but not least, if all deems to fail,” Jaskier carried on at the peek of his speech, turning to face the Witcher whom he thought to have been addressing all along. "And it turns out that she, with her honed senses of a mischievous witch, suspects anything still, then you have my permission to seize me and –- _Geralt, are you listening_?”

He was – until he wasn’t. Having grown distracted half-way through, Geralt had absentmindedly unsheathed one of his swords for inspection.

“No, no, no, _no_!” yelled Jaskier with transcending panic, his feet shuffling towards the side of the bed where Geralt was seated. “Don’t tell me you’re more focused on that stupid _deal_ of Father's now of all bloody times!”

“Hard not to when I'm offered good payment,” replied Geralt, reaching for his pocket to fish out a fat pouch of coin. “In advance, too. Only a fool would turn that down.”

“Gods, Geralt!” he snapped, upset, “What about _our_ deal?”

Geralt returned the pouch to his pocket, delaying the answer so gravely anticipated. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

But that was apparently not what Jaskier wanted to hear, for soon he was dragging a lungful sigh and distancing himself to address the balcony in lament.

“I am forlorn!” he cried, “I am but a miserable sack of meat to be handed over to a noblewoman I shall never love of my own will! I shall live a life of condemned unhappiness and misery, kiss my children goodbye when my heart aches for nothing but freedom. Then I will grow old and grey and regret will eat at me forever, until I will no longer be able to bear the hurt and the deprivation of choosing a life of my own will, and I will have no other choice but to escape the sadness the same as any hopeless romantic chained to the confines of a desolate commitment would, beg for death herself to take me!”

“Quit whining. You will be _fine_ ,” grunted Geralt at last. “She won’t suspect a thing, your mother. You have my word.”

And if Geralt had known a promise was all it took to bring the bard to reason, then he would have saved himself the trouble and uttered one earlier. Mildly pleased with the outcome, Jaskier removed himself from the vicinity of the balcony and sat beside Geralt on the bed.

"Remember you made a promise," he said. "You better keep it or else - or else you can kiss your payment goodbye."

Geralt, who had been hoping for peace ever since they entered the chamber was met with great discomfort once the conversation died. There was something in the air he didn't quite notice before. Some sort of tension. He and the bard had shared smaller spaces, breathed closer to each other's faces, lied on the same bed with their backs pressed to one another, but what never happened before was the built-up unease, the nerve-wreaking strain of sitting at arm's length with Jaskier's palm sinking into the mattress. The lovers act was expected to be dropped when out of the parents' sight, of that Geralt was aware and yet, it did not succeed in appeasing the thoughts racing in his mind, the thoughts of _what if_ something happens. 

"What permission am I given again?" he brought up eventually, the bard's words from earlier belatedly reaching his ears. "In case all fails."

To which Jaskier answered with a heart-warming chuckle.

"Whatever you please," he said softly, his head tilting to the side, slightly brushing Geralt's shoulder in the process. "You know I trust you with my everything."

When the servant came knocking at their chamber's door to announce the start of the banquet's feast, Geralt found himself wishing she never did. Then the thought eclipsed as soon as it arose and the two made their final preparations before getting escorted to the hall. 

.

.

.

The taste of the most expensive of wines and the most delightful of meals turned sour in the company of drunken fools that could hardly last three tankards before they start humping all that bore a pulse. It was precisely that which drove Geralt away from banquets, the pretense of holding a higher esteem of the self when all they clearly wished for was drinking their humility away. It was a circus of the nobility, one that could bring joy to those who wish to see their high-ranked enemies spit at each other with the secret hope that they would battle to death. There were no battles - so far - and amidst this mess the Witcher sat on display right beside the bard that brought all of this nuisance upon him.

Geralt did not blame Jaskier. This was, after all, a deal mutually agreed upon. That and the bard was having his fair share of disasters falling upon him as it was.

Not only his mother hasn't ceased scrutinizing his every movement - which had Jaskier lean and tug at Geralt every two seconds - but the noble daughter he was to be wedded to turned out to be of a beauty so surreal it had him regret his lifelong decision of sabotaging the arrangement in the first place – or at least that was Geralt's interpretation of the look of constipation he wore at her sight.

A firm pat came resting on Geralt’s shoulder and he immediately recognized the Lord's voice addressing him in confidence. 

“I’ll leave it to you, Witcher.”

To which Geralt simply nodded.

“And Julian, you haven’t touched your wine! What's the matter? Keeping a sober eye on your mighty lover?" 

“ _Not now_ , father,” Jaskier cursed under his breath and watched his father walk away with a laugh, drunk to his wits. “Geralt, could you at _least_ look the part? It’s as if you’re not even trying!”

“You’re doing a fine job by yourself,” bit back Geralt. “With all the bickering, they certainly believe us soon to be wedded.”

Certainly the idea of wedding a Witcher struck him as most disturbing for that was enough to quieten him for the moments to come. As tempted as he was to indulge in food, wine and babysitting, he had work to do. Geralt's focus wandered to the crowded room.

According to Jaskier’s father, the beast he was hunting was the result of a most recent travel, in which the Lord and his men came across a wounded huntress in the woods. After saving her life and safely bringing her back to shelter, it came to the Lord's notice that his men were being brutally slayed one after the other, all of whom have been seen bedding the same woman. The huntress had disappeared after that, but the mysterious deaths were announced for yet another few months to come. It was decided that the beast must still be in town, shape-shifting and seducing whomever it came across, remaining well-fitted and concealed. The Lord believed with luck, the monstrous thing might be present at tonight's feast seeking a new victim. Geralt's task: Find it and slay it. Yet who would have thought that would deem so ardent when every guest in the hall appeared to be the worst curse bestowed upon this place.

Then Geralt's eyes fell upon a nobleman and his instincts ignited. He took it upon himself to focus on his next moves when, and without a warning, Jaskier’s hand came resting atop his.

“She drove me away,” he spoke with his eyes fixated on his mother’s table. “She filled me with hatred for this place, turned me blind with anger, and made me despise the very notions of love and care.”

Geralt remained silent, listening and silently disagreeing with his statement. He knew, better than anyone, Jaskier, and he knew that the entirety of the bard's being was filled with love and care. In fact, he had never come across anyone so freely, completely and utterly in love with the notion of love, so enamored by the concept of care. The sort of man to write heroic ballads about another's disastrous failures, grow aware of each and every detail concerning his life and dedicate his own to make of him a hero to the eyes of the populace. If _that_ wasn't care, Geralt didn't want to know what was.

  
Jaskier's hand twitched and he came to notice it at last. The slender fingers, the delicate grasp, the pale skin and the clear veins. How peculiar it was to pay attention to such details now of all times. First to Jaskier's hand then to Jaskier's chest and Jaskier's face. Strange to look and wonder why he often peered at him yet never stared, glanced at him yet never explored. Jaskier was a man that required that, required to be explored. A glance had one merely grasp the idea of him, but to understand him, to comprehend his person and unravel his complex core of that which is tragic, passionate and all in between, one had to linger far deeper than Geralt was trusting himself capable of.

"She's looking our way again," the bard's whisper reached him, "Quick, Geralt, do something!"

"Like what?" 

"Like - Like kissing me!"

Geralt looked at him expecting a teasing grin or a playful joke, but what he was met with were eyes wide with plea. The hand holding his tightened, nervous, and Geralt understood the seriousness of the situation. 

_I trust you with my_ _everything,_ Jaskier's words resonated in the back of his head.

Then and with the corner of his eye, Geralt saw the shadow of the nobleman slithering out of the mass. He didn't think twice before breaking the hold of Jaskier’s hand and vaulting upwards, ready for the chase.

“Where are you leaving _now_?”

_Now,_ Jaskier said and his voice cracked.

“To take a piss, _darling_.”

And he could have done it better, said it better. He could have mentioned the beast, the hunt, the deal, anything to ease Jaskier's worries of abandonment. But he didn't. Instead, he tore his eyes off his clear expression of hurt and walked away - _ran_ away. Because that was what this was truly about. Geralt running away from his _realisation_. 

An _honourable man_ , Jaskier called him earlier - and curse his ability to hear beyond the thickest of walls - but a coward is what he truly was. A coward for not confronting it, this newly-found, unsettling desire that has been eating at him ever since this whole thing started. 

“What do you think you're doing?” a cry broke out.

Having lost himself in thoughts that stirred in him emotions so foreign, Geralt had unsheathed his sword and tackled the hunted nobleman against the wall in the quiet hallway. He had him whimpering in fear, teeth clattering under the threat of the silver blade poking at his neck.

Something was wrong. Geralt's blade retreated and his fist came clutching the collar. This man reeked of humanity.

"Who are you? Why did you escape the crowd?"

"Please, please! This is all a scandal!" he pleaded, "She- She never cared for marriage before. Her mother and I were practically forced into this! As if – as if by the power of magic. We had no choice! I swear!”

"Who are you talking about? What magic?" Geralt tightened the grip. "Talk!"

“Amelia!" He shouted, "Amelia, my daugh- no, no! That girl is _no daughter of mine_! Call me insane, but I know better! She was born soft and sweet and lacking in nothing, but when it came to beauty, she wasn't the most fortunate. Look at her now! Angels cry at her sight. I have been cursed! Cursed, I tell you!”

Geralt's grip loosened eventually, and upon release, the nobleman began distancing himself in a hurry.

"Hold on," uttered Geralt. "I'm not done talking to you."

“Must go away,” he stuttered, retreating further and further down the hallway, an appalling look of horror drawn on his face. “Far, far away, so she could never find me again! Never! Save yourself, my friend! Save yourself while you can! She'll destroy you all like she destroyed the ones before!”

His shape disappeared into the next turn and Geralt stood there, contemplating the mess he brought himself into. How could he have been so blind so as to overlook such blatant elements?

The nobleman's humanity.

His attraction for Jaskier. 

“What is wrong with you?” came the scolding tone of the bard from a distance. He stomped on the floor with the same heaviness as earlier, angry and resentful - and how could he not be? "You can't just leave me there for my mother to feast upon as she wishes and run elsewhere to - to - what are you even _doing_?"

It was painful to watch, the expression of sourness at the tip of his tongue as he bit back the real question he was dying to ask: _Why did you run away from me?_

"It's Amelia," Geralt stated. "She's the monster your father is hunting."

"Will you quit it? I don't give a horse's arse about either!" he cried, hands clutching on his hips and brows sinking low in his forehead. "Was it - Was it _too far_ for you, is that it? You could've just told me, Geralt. Instead of -Instead of running off elsewhere -"

Jaskier was struggling with words which, for a man to whom speaking came as naturally as breathing, was greatly concerning. He sucked into the inside of his cheek, eyelashes fluttering as he stared down at his shoes, embarrassment painting his overall demeanor. 

"If kissing me sounds _so_ unpleasant then I completely understand," he said in a broken voice, his eyes watering.

"Jaskier."

"I'm truly sorry, this is nothing like myself, it's just that-" and he sighed, and his head fell so low his fringe came concealing his eyes. "Gods, this was the worst, stupidest idea of the decade, and you would have had nothing to do with it had I not insisted on-"

"Don't."

"No! Let me talk!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable, Geralt! This pretending, this acting, it just won't do it for either of us anymore. It's about time we -"

"Jaskier, _shut it."_

When he finally decided to fall quiet and raise his eyes at him it was too late. The entire banquet was at the hall's entrance witnessing their exchange. 

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promise I haven't forgotten about this piece. I simply had much in hand recently. 
> 
> To make up for the lost time, I made this chapter particularly lengthier and... especially entertaining.
> 
> Enjoy.

“You can’t do this to me,” came a plea, resounding in the higher floors of the manor.

“Oh, I can!” returned the stern voice, “Considering you have come into your own home, lied to your own parents, and made a fool out of all of us in front of our most valuable guests. I have all the right to be doing this, Julian. And _you_ shall obey.”

“I -"

“Not another word!” she dryly intervened, tone void of any form of kindness, “There is nothing left to be discussed. You _will_ marry Lady Amelia whether you like or not. The wedding will take place first thing in the morning. If you fail to make an appearance, or if you decide to disgrace us a second time, consider yourself no longer my son.”

After that, Jaskier's arguments were no longer heard. He had tried. He had done so for hours to no avail. But after his and Geralt’s fabricated relationship was exposed in front of the entire banquet, gossip broke out with soon the entire town to hear. Jaskier’s mother, who cared for nothing more than her family’s well-crafted image, had declared him unworthy to have a say in any future matters – including those that involved him personally.

Jaskier was broken over it. He stood before her with tired eyes and slouched shoulders, taking all of the blame. It was as she said: he was a disgrace, a disappointment. There was no denying it. He had ruined it all.

Nervous palms grew damp and anxious fingernails dug deep into his skin. Jaskier was standing at the door of her chamber, the hope that had stirred in his eyes moments ago, that perhaps there was still room to reason with her, was long gone, faded into nothingness. His mother had her back at him, seeping her wine in silence. She was, non-verbally, dismissing him.

“One more thing,” came her raspy, witch-like voice, her eye flickering under the lighting of the candle as she turned her head to pierce him with a glare. “I want that Witcher out of my lands by dawn.”

Jaskier turned and left immediately after that. He didn’t remember how his legs managed to lead him downstairs and back to his chamber. What he remembered, however, was the bittersweet taste the thought of facing Geralt left in his mouth. He was torn between dwelling in his heartbreak and taking responsibility for what happened. It was he, after all, who brought this upon himself. It was his idea, his advances, his carelessness, all of which backfired at him as anyone with a clear mind would have anticipated. Geralt was not at fault here. If anything, the Witcher deserved an apology. 

Upon entering the room, Jaskier thought Geralt gone if not for his swords’ scabbard lying on the bed alongside with the rest of the hand-picked outfit he wore to the banquet. From the direction of the bathing room, he heard the sound of water dripping mingled with that of a woman's high-pitched laughter. 

It pierced his heart like a sharp blade, the stinging pain of rejection, and the recognition of his own unworthiness. Tears crept into his eyes without much of a warning, and he held them back. He wasn’t one for crying. He who had taken many a humiliation from those shunning his singing skills and picked the optimism out of it, viewing it as nothing but an opportunity to learn from his own mistakes. He who had been rejected many a time by men and women of a beauty that had pleased his artistic eye. He who had been driven out of home by his own parents and never received a word of care ever since. None of those things had managed to bring tears to his eyes.

It wasn't just the realization that Geralt was bedding a woman the night after he rejected him that pained him most. It was the roughly two-decade-long hope shattering into a myriad of pieces. The grand moment that will scar him for the rest of his days, of which he would sing ballads and to which strangers would dance in the same careless manner as they would to a happy tune. The pain created art, he told himself. He should be glad he was hurting. 

He retreated to the lounging corner near the hearth to write until his eyes burned, then he laid down and slept his pain away.

.

.

.

“I appreciate you going out of your way preparing a tardive bath.”

“Don’t mention it. Your easy-to-tease character brought me to tears. I never laughed so hard in my life!”

The two were stepping out of the bathing room with Geralt steaming clean, a towel around the waist, accompanied by Marie the servant whose laugh was as cheerful as her young self.

“Honestly, I still cannot fathom the fact that you, the Butcher of Blaviken, could have such a soft side for the young Lord to let him drag you into this mess! Gods, you must only be smitten!”

“Watch your tongue."

“Or what?” she grinned. “You can’t hurt a poor servant who had just helped wash your back, can you? No, of course not. You’re too _soft_.”

Geralt allowed a faint growl of distress as he returned to the side of his bed. That was when his eyes first captured the sight of Jaskier by the hearth. His figure curled up between two silk-covered sofas and head nestled against the feather-filled cushions. He fell asleep with his notebook open, seemingly in the middle of drafting his next ballad – not of the joyous kind considering the events.

“No answer? Very well,” continued Marie with a chuckle, her smaller figure approaching him from behind. “I helped you clean. Should I also help you dress, or is that something only Lord Julian is allowed to do?”

Geralt didn’t answer that. He went to search for the bag of coins he received from Jaskier’s father and handed it over.

“For the trouble,” he said. “You may leave.”

“Quite a lot for trouble,” she teased. “I’ll take it you want me to keep your secrets while at it.”

“Better so.”

With a pleased grin, Marie tucked the coin purse under her undergarment then slithered out of the room.

Geralt took his time changing into his clothes. He knew he couldn’t sleep, and he knew it wouldn’t take him even if he tried. He spent his time reflecting instead, seated at the edge of the bed, battle-prepared, and pondering upon what to do next. A plan to catch the beast must be his main focus, yet every time Jaskier shifted on the couch behind him he lost his thread of thoughts. It lasted hours before he could hear the bard's first subtle snore, softly breathing in his calm sleeping state, and that was the one sign Geralt needed to rise off the side of the bed and quietly tread towards the lounging space.

With his mother now at their tail, the next morning held a promise to the worst. She will undoubtedly force Jaskier back into the arranged marriage, guilt him with all he failed to bring to the family, and manipulate him into acceptance. Geralt had seen it, the validation Jaskier sought from her, disguised as flaunted hatred. He sought what he failed to receive as a child. Love, comfort, care. But one thing was sure, Geralt would not live to see that happen.

And perhaps he was stubborn, perhaps he simply refused to admit to it, that he would hate to see the bard married off to some noblewoman when he could stay by his side. Perhaps this was all for Geralt’s selfish need to seize what he only now viewed as his. Or perhaps – perhaps he felt something for Jaskier, now that it was already too late.

He stood still with his back to the hearth, casting a shadow over the bard’s face nestled in a pillow he clung onto for sweet comfort. His lips were vaguely parted, dragging in swift heaps of air, his hair unruly, with strands falling over his tired eyebrows. With his blanket fallen on the floor, his limbs shivered in the cold of the room – the hearth clearly not warming him enough when he was so thinly clothed. Then and there Geralt wanted to embrace him and the desire was quite strong.

Reaching down, he gently gathered him up in his arms. The fragrance of his hair brushed against his cheek, conquering his senses at once. A scent so tender it riled in him emotions foreign. How could he have been so blind as to never notice this distinct yet undisclosed yearning? This sudden deepening desire to consume another entirely. The carnal urge to mark him as his own. It gnawed at him continuously, along with shameful guilt and stifling regret. Was it too late?

A sigh was all he could bring himself to utter in fear of awakening the other. And, approaching the bed, Geralt laid him down and remorsefully rose to take his leave. 

Then something brought him to halt, something he did not quite expect. Jaskier had reached out to him, a trembling, feeble voice that called his name in the dark. When he turned, it was to a pair of teary eyes and a series of miserable apologies. 

"I am so sorry. I am truly, desperately sorry."

And he did not quite comprehend why. Why was it he who was apologizing when it was all Geralt's fault? 

"I understand if you want to leave me...I understand if you want nothing more to do with me."

Why was he always the one blaming himself for it all?

"But I beg of you, Geralt. Please allow me a second chance," He pleaded, voice hoarse. "This... You... Us. It is all I have left in this world. So please. I'll be- I'll be anything you want. A mute, if I must. A travel companion that would never add to your troubles, that would never be a burden. I'll do anything just as long as I get remain by your side."

Why?

And then the answer materialized before his eyes. In the teary-eyed, disheveled bard sitting at the edge of the bed, he saw the lingering loneliness of being unwanted, uncared for, unloved. By his mother, by his father, by the audience.

By Geralt. 

"You fool..." 

The limited words came out of him in a whisper, and he knew that in it, he was addressing himself, also. With a swift step, he reached back towards the bed, startling the bard into reason as he gripped him with firm hands and witnessed in his wide eyes the truth he was battling to repress. 

"You're not a burden, Jaskier," He announced with reverberating anger. "I am the one to blame for not facing myself sooner, for being side-tracked by a job instead of being there for you as a true companion would. I am the one who should be apologizing, _not you_."

"Geralt -" retaliated the bard, insisting.

"Let me finish," interrupted his commanding voice.

Jaskier fell still, eyes wide open and expectant. 

"You will not marry Amelia," He declared in a darker tone, his grip tightening around the bard's shoulders, nails digging into his skin. "Whether or not she is the hunt matters less to me. I will _not_ give you away."

It was a powerful achievement to attain the level of confidence desired to speak one's mind, to truly reach the other. Geralt was aware nothing spoke louder than actions. Killing, slaying, hunting, he has done it all to prove he was on Humanity's side. To prove he was on Jaskier's, however, it was not acts of violence he wished to display.

Misty eyes scrutinized him with utter confusion. Mouth agape, the bard was speechless, astounded. In the reflection of his ocean blues, Geralt saw a shred of his own desires, lingering deep within. A glimpse was all it took, a flutter of an eyelid, a swift glance landing on the other's lips then the contract was sealed. 

He kissed him with the hunger of a wolf made to starve for days, yet whose prey he wished to devour with utmost delicacy. Passion was a powerful ingredient in teasing the line between sexual desire and need. All those women he bedded in the past, some of whom he shared a lustful tenderness with, had never released in him a desire so profoundly painful to control. Geralt felt he was nearing the edge of his patience, and losing the battle to his core urge, to his inner wolf, he lifted Jaskier onto the middle of the bed and let his darkest appetite unleash. 

There was a spark of pride igniting within him when he was met with equal ravenousness. The bard's fists were clutching at his tunic, melting into the exchange as if it was one he could not live without. Shy initially, his lips had eagerly parted the second he was pressed against the bedsheets, his faint whimpers and moans coating his sensitive tongue. He was whispering something, and it took Geralt a moment to focus on anything other than his intoxicating taste.

"Are you -" his breath hitched, and he drew a swift tongue over his swollen upper lip. "Are you sure about this? I mean, not to ruin the mood or anything, and if I were to express myself in the light of the current situation then truly, I am at bliss, but I'm quite perplexed as to why this is happening considering only a couple of hours ago you weren't _as_ eager to kiss m-"

Geralt was not patient enough to let him finish. The heaviness of the breath he sharply inhaled through his nostrils was a sign he was actively sinking into something profoundly addictive, something he never guessed he would find in Jaskier - in his travel companion - of all people. While he drove the other to shortness of air, Geralt rid himself of his tunic, and under the delightful sight of admiration, he clutched at the bard's chemise next.

"Oh, no, no, not the-" 

The complaint went unheard under the sound of the thin fabric ripping open. Jaskier found himself both ashamed of his nakedness and grieving one of his favorite clothing that had now turned into no more than a disposable piece of cloth.

"Gods, Geralt," he lamented in a whine, "I liked this one!"

"And I liked you better out of it."

The pride in his deep-throated purr worked wonders on the complaining bard, who had parted his lips to formulate a reply but came with nothing but an impatient groan.

"For gods' sake, just kiss me already!" 

And he needn't ask twice. Geralt was eager to seal their lips a myriad of times over if it meant he would be granted the cloying taste of the other. It battled in his mind relentlessly, the thought of how far he could allow himself to explore, to taste, to consume. In his most twisted inner desires, he could see himself draining Jaskier to complete exhaustion. So dire and immense his appetite was, he could not pretend a mere touch of the lips, no matter how sweet and tender, to be of a satisfactory nature. He wanted, no, he _required_ something more, something the extent of which would be far greater. 

While in the process of formulating a question concerning the matter of his urgent needs, Jaskier took the liberty to reach for his breeches, palming the exact area which had been achingly stiffening in the discomfort of the fabric cloaking it. Geralt could hardly bask in the pleasing realization that his inner cravings might, after all, be mutual when his lips were suddenly robbed of Jaskier's, and the bard was quick to gasp in a most required amount of oxygen before speaking drowsy words while wearing the expression of a man who had just witnessed a scandalous surprise.

"Oh sweet Jesus, you're -" he choked on his own words, embarrassment rising to his cheeks, "Are you truly _that_ excited or am I just foolishly groping some hidden dagger's handle here?"

A stretched smirk caressed Geralt's lips at the hearing of the silly compliment. He leaned onto him right after and blew a breath of whispers into his rosy, sensitive ears.

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

The immediate shudder that seized the bard's body was something Geralt could blatantly feel. Jaskier was quick to reach further, fiddling with the laces to forge a path underneath. The second his hand came in contact with his skin, Geralt's cock pulsed in pure enthusiasm.

"Fuck," he cursed in a low, raspy voice, "I'm at my limit here."

"Oh, _really_?" muttered Jaskier with a deep frown while shifting in the discomfort of his own breeches, "For fuck's sake, Geralt, you're not the one who's been pining for decades on end, have you? So don't you dare speak of _limits_ when I have been repressing mine for ages!" 

The truth, if anything, washed over him with new-found yearning. To know he has been the object of lust of Jaskier for the past years, that he has been oblivious to the numerous nights they have spent sharing the same bed and in which the bard had been holding himself back in silent distress, that he has been aching for the embrace he was only now given, Geralt's senses were newly ignited. A new door of possibilities has opened before him, and he was now certain he wanted Jaskier as much as Jaskier wanted him.

"Are you even listening to- _Oh god,_ how are you even getting _harder_?!"

"Who do you think is to blame?" he grunted, unfastening the rest of his breeches when Jaskier's other hand came tugging at the fabric.

"No, no, let me do it," he begged, half-risen off the bed. "I might honestly be a disaster in comparison to that busty servant you've had tonight, but the least a man can do is _try_."

"Servant?" echoed Geralt with a cocked eyebrow.

Jaskier's hands were thin yet robust and with a solid pull, he was sliding the breeches with ease along with the undergarment down to Geralt's knees. 

"You know well whom I speak of. Mara, Maria, or whatever her name was," stated Jaskier, his eyes lowering down to his level. " _Oh,_ oh gods. You're, uh, _something,_ aren't you? Can I?"

Jaskier was hesitant yet strongly tempted. His irises were dilated and the tip of his tongue dampened his lips in expectation, but Geralt's hand was swift, and it seized Jaskier by the chin before he could get any closer, raising his blue orbs back towards him.

"You thought I slept with her?" he easily guessed, eyes squinting at the bard. "And how did that make you feel?"

"Well, look," he stuttered, clearly upset. "It's none of my business, now, is it? If I just happen to be at the receiving end of one of your sexual impulses, then I am quite happy with the outcome. I take what I can get, is all-"

"You think this is _another_ of my impulses?" spat Geralt behind gritted teeth. "You'd let me fuck you for what, _fun_?"

"I- You - You want to fuck me?" spat the bard, wide-eyed. 

"Fucking hell, Jaskier, how can you be so dense when you're about to eat my cock?" He groaned, clearly irritated.

With more roughness on the edges, Geralt tugged at the bard's collar and pressed him against the headboard. He took a fistful of his hair and pressed the tip of his cock against his mouth. There was nothing he could do to get through that thick skull of his, no matter how hard he tried, and Geralt was at the limit of trying. If he was desperate to devour him before, now he was utterly bent to ruin him, to consume every bit of his body until his mind was bound to follow.

To his greatest pleasure, the bard was obediently complying. With lustful eyes peering upward, Jaskier parted his rosy lips and eagerly took him in.

.

The room fell still, save for the crackling sound of the hearth's fire and the muffledness of Jaskier's moans. He had wholly submitted to the mercy of Geralt and found nothing but a twisted form of joy in making use of his lips for the pleasure of another. He couldn't read him, he couldn't understand him, but he could clearly identify the Witcher's body language through the shuddering of his hips and the pulsating of his veins. He could not yet comprehend what brought Geralt to change his mind, still, but he was far too content with the outcome to even think of pushing it further with the questioning.

Now came the second issue, this one of a more urgent nature, and that is Geralt's desire to _fuck him._ Good gods, Jaskier could hardly contain the lump of excitement building in the pit of his stomach at the hearing of those words, and yet whenever the thought crossed his mind again, he found himself covet the idea strongly. It bewildered him just how much he _wanted_ it to happen. He felt he should be ashamed of such a level of desperation.

Except he wasn't. His body was throbbing with the need to be wanted. His mouth tasted of the man he could until now consider the mere scent of a mesmerizing gift for his hungry urges. Now he was feeling his every curve against his tongue, every vein pulsating in heat, and he couldn't quite contain himself from sliding a hand in between his own loose breeches and seize his painful erection for momentary relief. 

"Fuck," came the lustful grunt of the other, and when Jaskier raised his glistening eyes at him he realized he was being watched.

And when their eyes locked, there was no turning back. 

It happened quite suddenly, Jaskier's lips were no longer in control, his mouth no longer exploring but being explored. The fist in his hair tightened and the Witcher's hips bucked forward at once, and when Jaskier felt the tip of it tease the back of his throat over and over again, he thought his consciousness was abandoning him. So intense of an experience it was, he couldn't comprehend the extent of its impact until Geralt was slipping out of him and Jaskier witnessed the mess he had made between his own thighs.

"Already?" Geralt scoffed, a smirk cornering his lips as he traced his thumb over the surface of Jaskier's swollen lip. 

Jaskier was still entranced, far too engrossed in the high that followed his sudden orgasm to understand what was being said.

"Cat got your tongue?" teased the Witcher, bending over to take his lips in his for a quick peck. He wasn't minding the light-headedness of the bard, and turned to search the drawers of the nightstand. When he returned with a sight of pleasantness on his features and a vial of oil in hand, Jaskier jerked off the bed with a look of pure disbelief.

"Oh, no, no, no, Geralt, I can't - I - _Oh_!"

His heart leaped out of his chest when the vial was set aside and the solid, steady hands came gripping his inner thighs and with a swift pull and not a broken sweat, Jaskier was pulled back onto the bed, the last pieces of clothing peeled off his body while he was left gasping for air at the suddenness of the action that came upon him. Geralt was perched over him with an expression he had never quite witnessed before. Was it lust? Was it desire? Was it something else entirely? He was beyond himself trying to even guess.

"Do you want me to stop?" He asked in that voice that sent chills running down Jaskier's skin. And how could he refuse him after that?

"No, _fuck_ ," He gasped. "I mean who am I fooling? I never wanted to be so desperately fucked in my life. Do you have any idea how many times I touched myself to the thought- _Gods._ " 

"Careful with what you say next," hummed Geralt, having reached down between his thighs. "I'm hardly the patient kind." 

A lustful moan broke out of him against his will as he felt himself open up to fit the shape of Geralt's slick finger. If it weren't for fear of a resulting pain, Jaskier would have begged to be taken right then and there. But he did as told, for once, and kept his lingering impatience to himself. 

His eyelids fluttered shut to the blissful contact of Geralt's lips landing on the crook of his neck. A gentleness many would swear a Witcher incapable of enacting. But it was there, very real and undeniably delightful. A wave of comfort washed over him after that, and he was eager to run his hand through the white strands of the other, clutching gently when one of his nipples was targetted then the other. The intensity of Geralt's touches took a turn for the better, and suddenly the penetrative fingers were bringing him more joy inside than out, the resulting obscene sound of the heated friction sending jolts of excitement to his cock. That's about when Jaskier knew he was beyond ready.

"Geralt wait - _Oh!_ Geralt!"

With a lazy rise of his head, his white strands caressing the intensity of his features, Geralt's languid amber hues fell on Jaskier. He appeared to be taking in the sight of him quite vividly, and Jaskier was unaware of the expression he must have been wearing - that of pure delight, surely - but it seemed to have worked wonders on the Witcher's appetite because soon enough, his eyes sparkled with wild interest and the impatience he formerly spoke of materialized in his immediate actions. 

Jaskier's chest throbbed when the Witcher's strong grip seized him by the thighs and spread him open. A hint of shame danced in his eyes at the reality of being so utterly exposed, but in the aching of anticipation he reveled, and in Geralt's sculpted body that towered over him with the promise of forbidden pleasure. 

"Whatever it is you're thinking right now," Geralt's voice broke the silence, "I enjoy the look of anticipation it had you wear."

Jaskier had the wittiest come-back for that statement, but when he opened his mouth to utter it nothing else came out other than the most lungful, erotic moan he had ever let be heard. So high-pitched it was, it left him wondering if it truly came out of him. Geralt was, without much of a warning, stretching him wider than a few fingers were able to manage. The lump in Jaskier's stomach was reacting, at last, with the unknotting satisfaction of being breathtakingly replete, and as he was dived into with recurrent ferocity, his mind grew hazed, and his half-lid eyes captured the sight of Geralt rocking into him with the energy of a wolf in heat. 

Distracted fingernails dug into the silky pillow under his head, soon to be joined by a larger, rougher hand that intertwined his in a satisfying hold. Jaskier could no longer tell the voices apart when his own redundantly reverberated inwards throughout his body entire. He tasted wine-mingled lips and clutched onto sweat-drenched hair. He could hardly tell if the peak of pleasure was the one he was upon or the one that was yet to come, each moment strenuously driving him above and beyond, taking him to a place where no thought other than pleasure crossed his mind. 

He hadn't noticed he came until Geralt was digging his fangs into the skin of his neck and jolting him back to reality. 

"Don't you faint on me, Jaskier"

He warned him in a soothing purr. His damp skin reflected the light of the hearth, and his tired eyelids drooped faintly as he addressed him. The pain on his neck had worked wonders on helping him regain complete awareness of the time and space, of what happened and how it happened. It was akin to some sort of trance, a state he had never come across before, not ever in his entire promiscuous life throughout the continent. Bedding Geralt was, in Jaskier's experience, beyond the pleasures of the human realm. 

"You ... didn't release yet?" came his drained, hoarse tone, his eyes peering under at the massive length that had sent him to heaven but a few moments ago.

"If you think one round would satisfy me, then you have not a single clue what a Witcher is capable of in bed," teased Geralt with the faintest chuckle. "But considering how dazed you appear to be, I shall go easy on you today."

There was a tingling sensation that was but a pure curiosity of what Geralt was hinting at, the desire to uncover what he spoke of, then there was the faint disappointment of having been unable to satisfy him as much as he was satisfied. 

"Was it the same with her?" He wondered out loud in a broken voice. "Or was she able to completely satiate you?"

"Look at me," Geralt's stern voice demanded.

A frown traced the until now relaxed features of the Witcher, and as he reached to cup his cheek within his palm, Jaskier's heart fluttered, and he did not know quite what to do. 

Then Geralt leaned onto him the same manner he had done before, except the profoundness with which he had taken his lips this time was of unmatched tenderness. Jaskier was, through a mere touch of the lips, communicated warmth and care he had never quite experienced before. To have a man of Geralt's character, rough on the edges and wielding uncanny strength, express such gentleness was an act of the unthinkable. Something Jaskier would have never come upon in his wildest of fantasies. 

The faint sound of detachment from a kiss that was never meant to end echoed in his ear, and when Geralt looked upon him again, Jaskier could see it at last.

"Do you get it now?" He quietly whispered.

And Jaskier could not quite pinpoint the moment the tears began streaming down his face. 

**TBC**


End file.
